


despite the heat, it'll be alright

by evewithanapple



Category: Hair - MacDermot/Rado/Ragni
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 16:47:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18760441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evewithanapple/pseuds/evewithanapple
Summary: Summer in the city.





	despite the heat, it'll be alright

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gwenfrankenstien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwenfrankenstien/gifts).



“Berger.” Claude shakes Berger’s shoulder, trying to jostle him into awareness. “Berger, look – look up. Look at the _fireworks_.” The night sky above is inky-black, but bright white lights are exploding across it in every direction, cartwheeling against the edges of his vision until he can barely see for the glow.

“Uh?” Berger, groggy from the acid they’d all dropped earlier in the evening, takes his sweet time looking where Claude’s pointing. Then he laughs. “Those aren’t fireworks, baby, those are stars.”

“No, they’re – “ He blinks, then squints. _Are_ they stars? Are they standing still? He’d thought the acid had worn off completely by now, but he also thinks he can feel the grass moving underneath him – not just shifting with him as he rolls around, but actually _moving_ , like dozens of little fingers tickling his back. Maybe he’s higher than he realized. Still, the stars -

“That one,” he says, pointing. “That one’s moving.”

“Mmm.” On Berger’s other side, Sheila groans, lifting her head from the grass only so that she can run a hand through her hair. She squints at him. “What’s moving?”

“ _That_.” Claude jabs his finger insistently at the little dot of light that’s still gliding across the sky. “The _fireworks_.”

Sheila groans again, but pushes herself upright on her elbows, following his gaze. “Claude, baby,” she says, “that’s not fireworks. That’s an airplane.” Beside her, Berger rolls over and mutters something against her side.

Claude tries to hold his head steady and focus his gaze long enough to see if she’s telling the truth. When he manages it, his shoulders slump in disappointment. It’s a plane after all; not fireworks, not even a mundane piece of magic like a shooting star. Just a plain old airplane. Sheila mutters something about pollution, and his shoulders slump further.

“’M leaving on a jet plane . . .” Berger’s singing voice is nothing to brag about at the best of times, and takes a significant turn for the worse when he’s high; just now, he sounds like a dying goose. “Dunno when I’ll be back again – “ The tension in his body shifts as he grabs Claude’s arm. “Hey, Claude, we should get on one of those things. Go to India. C’mon, let’s _go_.”

“Right now?” They’re all of them high, but Claude at least has come down enough to recognize that Berger’s talking bullshit. Then again, Berger talks so much bullshit, it’s usually safer to just assume ahead of time. “You got money for tickets?”

“He does not,” Sheila says, but she sounds more fond than exasperated. She ruffles Berger’s hair, then leans across him to kiss Claude’s cheek. “And we’re not going to India.”

“We could,” Berger mumbles. He drags himself half-upright, so that his head is just under Sheila’s arm and exactly the right position to lean on Claude’s shoulder. “It’d be fun.”

“We can have fun here,” Claude says. His recollections of what they did after taking the acid are cloudy, but coming back to him in flashes. The whole tribe together, everyone in one big, semi-clothed pile; Berger grabbing him by one hand and Sheila by the other and dragging them away; falling down here, in a little copse of trees out of sight of the rest of the park. Berger laughing; Sheila putting her arms around his neck, her bare foot rubbing against his calf. A hand pulling his shirt off, running down his back. Another hand fumbling with his belt buckle, metal cold against his skin. He reaches down to see where his belt is now; it’s gone, and his pants are open, but at least he’s still _wearing_ pants.

“Hm, fun,” Berger says. He flops sideways, shimmying down until he’s lying across Claude’s waist, fingers plucking at his waistband. “I like fun. Sheila, don’t you like fun?”

Sheila starts to lean over Berger, then huffs in annoyance and gets up on her hands and knees instead. Claude can’t tell what she’s going for until she makes her unsteady way to his other side, letting herself drop down onto his free arm. Claude grunts. “Fun’s good,” she hums, running her fingers through Berger’s hair. “I’d rather have it sober, though.”

“Who’s not sober?” After several rapid-fire blinks, Claude’s vision is finally starting to clear; the lights are stars and airplanes after all, not fireworks. The grass isn’t moving. He is definitely, indisputably, 100% sober. No doubt.

Sheila doesn’t even bother dignifying his question with a response; all she has to do is indicate Berger with a lazy wave of her hand. Berger, who’s still lying across Claude and giggling at some joke that Claude and Sheila didn’t catch. A cosmic joke, probably. To Berger, they’re all cosmic jokes.

“That’s just one out of three,” he says, and kisses Sheila. Her mouth opens immediately underneath him, tongue flicking at his teeth, one hand snaking around to tweak at one of his nipples. He grabs her waist and tugs, rolling until she’s on top of him and Berger is lying beside them, blinking stupidly like someone just flashed a light in his eyes. His eyes, which are currently blown all to hell. He sounds like a goose, but he looks like a startled cat.

“No fair,” he says, batting a hand at Sheila’s breasts. She catches his hand and squeezes it, laughing, before pushing him away. “Sorry baby, you’re sitting this one out. Sit back and watch.”

“Watching’s fun,” Claude says, a little breathlessly, because Sheila’s got her legs clamped around his waist in a vice grip. It’s so she can keep her balance as she arches her back, shedding her shirt – it was unbuttoned and hanging open anyway, but the effect is still spectacular – and shaking her hair loose over her shoulders. Claude’s tongue feels thick and useless in his mouth. “Fuck.”

“If you want.” She braces a hand on either side of his shoulders and leans down to kiss him again. When he pushes up against her, she moves her hands over to his shoulders so that he can’t squirm around underneath her. Claude’s eyes go crossed trying to follow her as she leans back again. He can’t manage words; the only noise he manages to pronounce is a low “unhhhhhhh.”

As Sheila pulls his pants and her skirt out of the way and settles herself onto him, Berger butts his head against Claude’s. When Claude turns towards him, Berger kisses him, sucking on his bottom lip and grabbing a fistful of Claude’s hair. He tastes like burnt sugar. Meanwhile, Sheila’s rocking on top of him, digging her own hands into her hair as she tosses her head back. Claude puts one hand up to cup a breast, and reaches out with the other to grab Berger by the belt loop on his jeans, hauling him close enough that he can reach into his jeans and start to jerk him off. Berger’s cat eyes stay wide open, staring at Claude, while Sheila closes her own eyes above him. She covers his hand on her breast with her own, and starts to rock harder. Meanwhile Berger’s squirming in his grip – he can’t ever keep still, no matter what they’re doing – and, like Sheila, covers Claude’s hand with his own. Claude comes like that, hands full of Berger and Sheila on all sides, with Berger panting heavily in his ear and Sheila moaning above him. Berger flails a hand towards Sheila, like he’s intending to help her finish; she grabs it and guides it down between her legs, orgasming with her tongue caught between her teeth and her head thrown up towards the moon. Berger puts his head in the hollow of Claude’s shoulder and grunts as he spills over their joined hands.

Sheila takes a second to come down, then rolls off and back onto the ground beside Claude. Berger rolls over onto his stomach, wiggling like he’s trying to clean himself off on the grass. Claude stays where he is, breathing in deeply. The summer night already smelled like cut grass and distant roses; now it smells like sweat and come. A star blinks above him. He blinks back.

“We should . . .” Sheila starts to say, and Claude knows she’s going to suggest going inside – to her apartment or to one of the abandoned buildings they crash in, it doesn’t much matter – but he can’t bring himself to move. He’s too comfortable here, even with two warm bodies on either side of him bringing the temperature up past the normal July heat. His limbs feel like jelly. He couldn’t get up if he tried.

Sheila apparently feels the same way, because she trails off with “. . . five more minutes,” before pillowing her face on her arm and closing her eyes. Her shirt is still lying a few feet away where she tossed it; Claude thinks about retrieving it to use as a cushion, but again, he can’t seem to motivate himself enough to move.

“Hey,” Berger says, poking at Claude’s arm. Claude turns his head to look at him, but Berger’s face is turned upwards. The moonlight is turning his face pale and silver. “Hey,” he says again, “I think I see fireworks.”


End file.
